We Southern Californians are living in a disaster zone again. Last week we had the drill for the "Big One," and then the place went up in flames. Monday twilight was at 3:30 in the afternoon and the moon that night was more brown than yellow. Like a broken Vanilla Wafer. You can't help but wonder at every siren when there are fires burning all around. And when your neighbor barbecues you have to go outside and be sure it's kabobs you're smelling and not the wood shake roof. I had to go out Monday night and I drove 7 miles an hour for a good portion of the trip because that's what we do when we go out in the evening in L. A. Rush hour crushes your soul if you're not in the mood to have your foot hovering over the brake and even NPR can't save you.
These slow drives are the worst. The litany is longer and more detailed then because there's more time to look around. He drives this freeway twice a day. We went to a party somewhere on that hill. There's his building. There's the Staples Center--wow, I thought we were having fun at those Clipper games we saw last year. If I exited here, I'd could find my way to that hideous duplex we rented in Culver City. This is how my divorced brain works and I don't know how to stop it. At this point in time, I no longer feel the debilitating heartbreak, but the memories are there just the same. Why, exactly, am I living here?
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